James Chase: He Won't Need It Now

Duffy turned his head very slowly and looked over his shoulder. Standing behind him was a broad-shouldered man, wearing a black Fedora, pulled down low. In spite of Duffy’s usual nonchalance, he felt his short hairs on his nape bristle. There was something utterly repulsive in the hard white face behind him. It gave Duffy the same feeling he might have got if he turned over a rotten log that had been lying in long grass for some time, and suddenly seen the foul things the log hid. The scurry of beetles and ants, the brown dead grass, and the white fungi, and particularly the long white slug that squirmed away from the sunlight. Down below he heard a door shut, and he guessed that the woman had left the room.

Keeping his hands raised, he said, “For the love of Mike, where did they find you?”

The man’s eyes were almost closed, but the light in the room was sufficient for Duffy to see that they were mean and hard. He dug the gun into Duffy hard.

“Stand still,” he said again. His voice was hoarse as if he smoked too much. He put out a hand and snatched the camera hanging from Duffy’s neck. The strap snapped, jerking Duffy’s head forward.

“Hi!” Duffy said, in alarm. “You ain’t pinching my outfit?”

“Shaddap,” the man snarled at him.

A violent rage consumed Duffy. “A frame-up, huh?” he snorted. “Mr. Sonofabitch Morgan wants his pictures for nothing?”

“If you don’t stop yappin’, I’ll blast your guts,” the other rasped. “What the hell do you think you’re doin’ in here?”

Duffy began to lower his hands, but the gun dug into him again. “Listen,” he said, “I’m just doin’ a job of work. Come to that, what about yourself?” All the time he was speaking, he was wondering if this tough would shoot him. He began to think he was in a bit of a spot.

“I guess we’ll go for a little walk,” the other said. There was a threat in his voice, but he took a step back, taking the gun from Duffy’s side. Duffy didn’t hesitate. He took a deep breath and suddenly kicked back with his heel. He hoped to connect with the other’s leg. Maybe splinter his shin-bone for him, but his leg shot back meeting nothing, and before he could save himself he toppled over the low balcony and crashed into the room below.

He came down on his hands, breaking his fall by sliding a little on the carpet. For a moment the shock did things to him, then he sat up.

A door opened and he looked up gingerly, wondering it his brain had broken loose from its moorings. The red-head was standing there. She crossed her arms over her breasts and screamed. A breathless little scream that made Duffy want to put his arms round her and soothe her; not perhaps quite the same way as a mother might soothe her hurt child, but along those lines. When he saw the .25 in her hand he changed his mind.

Women with guns made him nervous. He could never believe that they were safe with them. Before now, a woman had held him up with a gun. He remembered one particularly irate blonde who had been so mad with him that she had squeezed the trigger a little too hard. The thought made him sweat a little, and he sat on the floor very still, giving her no cause for alarm.

Her eyes were large and scared, and her red lips were parted, showing her white even teeth. Duffy thought she was pretty good.

“Who… who are you?” she stammered breathlessly.

“Lady,” he said, holding his head in his hands, “I’m asking myself the same question.”

“What are you doing here?”

Duffy looked at her through laced fingers. “Would you mind very much putting that rod away? I’ve just fallen out of that loft and my nerves won’t stand any more.”

“Will you tell me what you are doing here?” She was getting her nerve back, and her voice was steady.

“For the love of Mike don’t start gettin’ tough,” he pleaded, “take a look at that hoodlum up there before you get that way.”

She looked frightened again. “Is there anyone else up there?”

Duffy laughed shortly. “I should say so,” he said, rubbing the back of his head gingerly, “he’s just tossed me out, so I should know.”

She took a step back hastily and looked up into the loft, then she shook her head. “There’s no one there.”

Duffy groaned. “The so-and-so’s pinched my camera,” he said wearily. “Do you mind if I get up? There’s a draught round here that ain’t doing me much good.”

“I think you had better stay where you are;” she said firmly. She held the gun steady as she reached for the telephone.

“Don’t do that,” Duffy said in alarm, “you ain’t calling the cops, are you?”

“Isn’t that what I ought to do?” she asked, her hand hesitating on the receiver.

“Listen, Mrs. Morgan, I can explain everything. It’s all a big mistake,” Duffy said; then he pondered and went on, “I’ve heard that crack before. My God, I must be losing my grip or somethin’.”

She lowered the gun in her astonishment. “Why do you call me that?” she asked quickly.

Duffy stiffened a little. “Ain’t you Mrs. Morgan?”

“No, of course not.”

He scrambled to his feet and waved his hands at her as she jerked up the gun. “Okay, okay, skip it,” he said impatiently, “this is important. Who are you?”

She tapped her foot on the floor. “What is this?”

“I’ll tell you what this is,” Duffy said furiously, “I’ve been taken for a ride. You’ve got to get this straight. Listen, Toots, I’m Duffy of the Tribune. Some guy who called himself Morgan spun me a yarn that you were his wife and you were being blackmailed. He wanted me to take photos of the crook who was putting the screws on you. I fell for this guff and came up to the hen-roost here and took photos of you and the guy you slipped the money to. Just as I am reaching for my hat and calling it a nice day’s work, some thug hops up, pinches my camera, and heaves me out on my neck. You tell me you ain’t Mrs. Morgan. In your own interests you’d better tell me who you are.”

She stared at him and then said finally, “I think you must be mad.”

“Use your head,” Duffy was getting impatient, “can’t you see that you’re in a spot? Morgan wanted a photo of you with this other guy and he’s got it. Ask yourself why.”

She still stared at him and shook her head “I don’t understand… I don’t believe…”

He slid across to her in one movement and pushed the gun away. “For Krizake,” he said roughly, “will you listen to me? Who was the guy you gave that money to?”

His urgency touched her and she said quickly, “I don’t know. I think his name’s Cattley…”

Duffy stepped back. “Cattley… of course. By heck! I must be losing my grip. Cattley…” He swung round on her. “What the hell are you doing with a rat like Cattley?”

Her eyebrows came together. “Will you stop asking me questions—?” she began.

“Listen, baby.” Duffy came close to her. His voice had a sharp edge to it. “Cattley’s got a name that stinks in this town. Everyone knows him. Cattley the pimp. Cattley the dope. Cattley the slaver. I tell you he’s poison to dames like you. You… you’ve let yourself be photographed with him… and someone’s got those photos Does that mean anything to you?”

“But….” she stopped and he saw she had gone pale.

“Yeah! That’s made you think. Sit down and tell me quick. Make it snappy; I’ve got things to do.”

She turned on him suddenly with furious eyes. “You started this,” she stormed at him. “If it hadn’t been for you—”

“Forget it!” he snapped at her. “I’m getting those pictures back all right. But you’ve got to wise me up a hell of a lot before I do.”